Warriors Twain
by Amberfire
Summary: Two warriors form an unlikely pairing when they track orcs through Mirkwood. Neither truly trust each other, and in the end, trust may be the only thing that can save them... Please R&R, I beg of you.
1. Meeting

Just a little story that I thought of—something that, for once, would not be a Legomance (Legolas Romance). I read somewhere on a review on another website that Legolas was a _warrior_, not a romantic womanizer, so this is my way of agreeing with them. It won't evolve into romance, I promise you that.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings or J. R. R. Tolkien (which is too bad), nor do I own Legolas, Thranduil, Mirkwood, Dol Guldur, or any other familiar name. I do, however, own Anathen, Firaniel, and Nyatha. Oh, and Avormith and Kivan, and other unfamiliar names.

If you like it, review it. If you don't, review it anyway. If my Elvish is wrong, if my grammar is not good, or if there are any spelling mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me!

~*~*~*~*~

"Handsome the son of Thranduil is," sighed Lady Firaniel, watching the Prince of Mirkwood, Legolas, vanish into the forest on horseback

"But he is not for the likes of you," Lady Anathen, Firaniel's dearest friend, said. "You know just as well as I that he is betrothed to Lady Benawen—"

"Against his will," interjected Firaniel, a hint of humour in her voice. "My Lord Legolas is apparently none too thrilled of his coming marriage."

"Which won't happen. Did they not tell you?" Anathen tossed back her dark hair, blue-grey eyes alight with excitement.

"What is it that they would have told me?" wondered Firaniel curiously.

"Lady Benawen has been captured by orcs!"

"No!"

"And this," Anathen said with a sardonic grin, "Leaves him free."

Firaniel sighed as she watched the elven prince below. "But I am not of rank—"

"He is a warrior," Anathen tormented her friend. "He is not for the likes of you, or any maiden. As you know, I care not for the prince, I have Lord Evarion." She spoke of the Elf who had been courting her for some time. "Also, he just left to go hunt for his captured bride-to-be."

"A warrior..." Firaniel's words trailed off as she sighed dreamily.

***

Prince Legolas of Mirkwood would have enjoyed the sounds of birds cheerfully singing, the breeze whispering through the trees, the smell of green and growing things, the rustling sound as Avormith, the grey mare he rode, trotted through the forest. However, Legolas could not enjoy things today, as he was not in the best mood. Sent by his father, Elvenking Thranduil to rescue his betrothed—a maiden Legolas did not particularly like, although Thranduil did not know this—Lady Benawen from a party of orcs who had captured her and taken her as captive towards the south.

_Towards Dol Guldur_, his traitorous mind said. "No," hissed Legolas, "Not towards there." _But it lies in the south_..._you must at least consider this option._ "Even though I do not much like the maiden, I will not abandon her to torment by foul yrch," Legolas said to himself fiercely. Avormith bobbed hr head and snorted, as if to agree. 

Legolas smiled at the mare's antics and patted her neck, "So you agree, fair lady?" Again Avormith bobbed her head. 

The Elf knew that it would take some time before he would reach the orcs, and now they would rest in darkness for it was day, so he let the mare take an easy trot—smooth as the trots of regular horses never were—and fell into something akin to a doze, but his eyes were wide open. It was a relaxed state he enjoyed while traveling on horseback.

This continued for a couple of hours or so, until a stirring in the forest forced him 'awake'. "Daro, Avormith," he told his horse. She stopped immediately, obeying his command, and stood stock still as he slid off her bare back.

He nocked an arrow to his well-made bow, and stealthily crept towards an odd rustling past several trees in _that_ direction...

He identified the noise as someone walking—probably one of the race of Men or a Dwarf as Elves rarely made noise while traveling through the woods.

"Show yourself," he said, using the Common Tongue, not the language of the Sindarin Elves, "You trespass on Elven lands, and are in danger of using your life."

The rustling stopped, and a young man stepped from behind a large tree. Young man? Legolas did not blink, or show any other sign of surprise, although he was quite astonished to realize that the man was actually a young woman. She held the reins of a handsome chestnut gelding, and stopped as soon as she saw the Elf, and the arrow pointed right at her heart.

Mistaking the maid's gender would not be hard to do. Unlike most maidens of the race of Men, this one had her mousey brown hair cut short so it just brushed her shoulders. A headband of dark-grey kept hair from her face. Her eyes were large, brown and intelligent, and her face had stern features, the hawk-like, stern nose, and the stubborn set of her mouth. Her body was far too over-muscled, unfeminine, unable to be in the least attractive. She was clad in a brown tunic, dark grey breeches, and black boots. The tunic was belted with a black belt, from which hung a slender sword a few inches longer than the standard short sword. Strapped to her back, over her cloak, was a quiver of arrows. She also bore a well-made bow, though not as finely crafted as Legolas'. 

There was something familiar about the way she moved, and it hit Legolas after a moment. She moved with a grace that was like the grace his old friend Estel, or Aragorn as his proper name was, moved with. Hers was cruder than Aragorn's, for Aragorn had been raised by Elves, and from the look in her eyes, Legolas was the first Elf she had ever seen. There was a gleam in her eyes, a tint of gold, and they reminded him of a raptor bird's. The way she moved too, seemed to scream "Predator!" at him. She was hunting something, of this Legolas was certain.

"You trespass on elven lands," repeated Legolas, "What is your reason, maethor sell?"

She looked him up and down, and reached a hand to her hilt. In response Legolas drew the string back, and she sighed, stopping her hand. "I apologize if I have stepped onto your lands, Master Elf, I track a band of orcs who are headed south through the wood. I mean no harm to either you or your people, in fact, the very opposite! I doubt that your people are fond of orcs."

"Yrch," said Legolas disgustedly, "You are correct. I also track orcs, heading south as you say." Legolas lowered his bow, sensing that the young woman meant what she said. There was honesty in her face, alongside determination, and the look of a hunter. 

"If I may ask, what is it you called me, "maethor sell"?" she asked curiously. She seemed to relax, trusting the Elf, although he noticed that her eyes were still wary.

"It means warrior maid," said Legolas, a touch of a smile upon his lips, "In my language."

She arched an eyebrow, "A fitting title, perhaps." A trace of sadness ran across her face, quickly replaced by an emotionless look. "I am called Nyatha," she offered after a pause. She gestured at her gelding, "He is called Kivan. He was bred in Rohan."

Legolas whistled piercingly for Avormith, and nodded his head gracefully. "I am Legolas Greenleaf and she—" he gestured as Avormith trotted into view, "Is Avormith."

"Oh!" exclaimed Nyatha as she stared at Avormith, who stepped into a shaft of sunlight, which turned her grey coat silver. "She is lovely," Nyatha stepped to Avormith, extending her hand. The mare sniffed her hand, and then butted it, asking for a nose-rub, which she got.

Legolas said, a hint of humour in his voice, "She is very vain." 

"Rightly so," replied Nyatha, entranced by the Elven-bred mare. 

"Since we travel for the same reason, and in the same direction, shall we travel together?" asked Legolas after Avormith finally pulled away from Nyatha's caress and bent her head to rip some grass off the ground. Nyatha looked up, and nodded, "It would be wise. Two stand a better chance against a band of orcs than one. We can guard each other's backs ... provided this does not insult you?" Nyatha looked worried for a minute, and Legolas knew why—she knew little of Elves, evidently, and would not know if they appreciated such offers.

"Hardly," answered Legolas, "It is always well to have someone watch your back."

With this new partnership now cemented, they both mounted their respective mounts, and rode off tracking the orcs. While Legolas rode, he wondered what Nyatha's reason for tracking the orcs was. However, it appeared Nyatha liked her privacy, and he would grant her it. It was a stroke of luck, Legolas thought, or the will of Valar, that he would meet with someone who could, indeed, guard his back. For if indeed the orcs were headed to Dol Guldur—he shook off the thought. Traveling with a warrior maid would be more enjoyable than traveling with a maiden whose only thoughts were for embroidery and handsome men, after all.


	2. Tracking

Just a little story that I thought of—something that, for once, would not be a Legomance (Legolas Romance). I read somewhere on a review on another website that Legolas was a _warrior_, not a romantic womanizer, so this is my way of agreeing with them. It won't evolve into romance, I promise you that.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings or J. R. R. Tolkien (which is too bad), nor do I own Legolas, Thranduil, Mirkwood, Dol Guldur, or any other familiar name. I do, however, own Anathen, Firaniel, and Nyatha. Oh, and Avormith and Kivan, and other unfamiliar names.

If you like it, review it. If you don't, review it anyway. If my Elvish is wrong, if my grammar is not good, or if there are any spelling mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me!

And to answer my reviewers:

Orangeblossom: Glad to see you like it! Any relation to the Orangeblossom of "Ninecompanions.net"?

Carol: Oh, the chapters will come as fast as possible. 

Countess of Nad Mullach: Very obsessed with Eolair, aren't you? lol Thanks for reading ^.^ 

Morgan le Fay: Tragic past? No indeedy. Nyatha actually has a kind of boring one. In the third chapter more will be learned about Nyatha's mysterious past.

Whitewolf: I love your stories! I fixed that little typo, I think. Yes, it was meant to be her, but sometimes I make mistakes while typing. Don't know how I missed that one, actually. More Nyatha explanations coming in the chapter after this... and of course, you do learn more in this chapter.

~*~*~*~*~

As the sun rose, flooding the camp in Mirkwood with green-gold light, so did Legolas, brushing off a leaf that had fallen upon him as he had rested overnight. He stood gracefully, and wandered over to Avormith to greet her, and stroke her soft mane. Avormith had been guarding the saddle-bags and equipment that Legolas and Nyatha had brought on the orc-hunt.

Nyatha... Legolas looked at the young woman, who lay beneath an old tree, deep in slumber. She looked softer, less like a predator when she slept, he noted, more innocent. Her face seemed younger, more honest, more like a child's than the warrior she had been yesterday. 

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts of his new companion, and bent down to strap the quiver upon his back again. He removed an arrow, nocked it to his bow, and left the camp, hunting for this morning's breakfast.

When he returned to the camp, two squirrels with him, Nyatha was awake, and sitting by a fire she had evidently made. The two horses grazed nearby, completely calm. She looked up as he moved closer to the fire. 

"Good morning, Legolas," she said, "I thought you went hunting. I prepared," she added, nodding at the fire. 

"And good morning to you also," he nodded. 

The squirrels made an excellent breakfast.

After the meal, Kivan were saddled, and the two walked for a bit, finding the orcs' track. When it was found, which took only a few minutes—the orcs had not covered their trail well—the two mounted their horses and rode off, following the obvious trail.

Soon, however, their silent, watchful ride ended when they came upon signs of a scuffle, and many different trails spouting in different directions. 

"You seek orcs, but I seek a man taken captive who is my elder by three years," spoke Nyatha, who dismounted and searched the ground. There was no blood, but the damage caused to greenery told the story. Legolas followed suit, and his keen eyes scanned the now-empty scene of the skirmish.

It appeared the orcs had fought, but there was something about the way the grass was trampled that seemed odd. Also, why would _five_ new parties split up and go seperate ways?

"I will follow the trail that—aha!" Nyatha picked a thread off a thorny bush. It was dyed black; not a colour Lady Benawen wore.

"He was taken this way!" she pointed to the path that went straight south. "But there's another set of footsteps," she bent down, "Very light, but forced into an uncomfortable pace—"

"That would be the Lady Benawen," snarled Legolas in sudden rage. "Nasty, foul yrch!" 

Nyatha turned to look at him in surprise at his sudden anger. Her expression radiated curiosity, and he calmed himself down, and spoke. 

"Lady Benawen is my reason for being on this orc-hunt—she was bethrothed to me, but was captured while on a pleasure ride with her father. These nasty _yrch_ made these false trails to mislead us. It makes no sense for _five_ different parties to split up and go seperate ways. My guess is they're headed towards Dol Guldur."

He watched her carefully, but she made no sign that the name of 'Dol Guldur' was familiar to her. Even though she seemed honest, he in no way fully trusted her. She was quite secretive, and was of the race of Man besides. Not all were to be trusted, especially not in these days of fell creatures and worry. 

"Dol Guldur?"

Legolas found himself needing to explain to her. "'Twas the stronghold of a Necromancer a few years ago. He was fell, and had been chased out. But Dol Guldur is still in place surrounded by fell things. Few are the Elves who dare go in that direction. It is dangerous." 

His words were meant to discourage her, if he could. Warriors maids were rare and few—in fact, she was the first he'd heard of. What man—or woman at that—allow their daughter to take up arms and go on dangerous missions?

However, Nyatha showed no sign of fear, just determination. "Fell beasts or no, I go to..." she stopped, then went on with a sigh, "I go to rescue my brother."

"Your brother is the man taken captive?"

"Aye." She spoke no more, but whistled for Kivan, who came. She lept onto his back and kicked his sides gently. Legolas mounted Avormith and followed.

So, Nyatha's brother had been taken captive, and this was why she followed the orcs. This explained much, but raised more questions. Kivan suddenly burst into a slow gallop, and Avormith followed eagerly. Legolas set aside his questions for a later date—now was time to hunt yrch.


	3. Fighting

Just a little story that I thought of—something that, for once, would not be a Legomance (Legolas Romance). I read somewhere on a review on another website that Legolas was a _warrior_, not a romantic womanizer, so this is my way of agreeing with them. It won't evolve into romance, I promise you that.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings or J. R. R. Tolkien (which is too bad), nor do I own Legolas, Thranduil, Mirkwood, Dol Guldur, or any other familiar name. I do, however, own Anathen, Firaniel, and Nyatha. Oh, and Avormith and Kivan, and other unfamiliar names.

If you like it, review it. If you don't, review it anyway. If my Elvish is wrong, if my grammar is not good, or if there are any spelling mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me!

This time the chapter's mostly about Nyatha. It explains somethings, but I bet it raises a ton of questions too. And now…

~*~*~*~*~

Nyatha poked the fire with a long stick, stirring the glowing embers. Firelight flickered over her homely features, casting dancing patterns over her tanned skin and leather clothing. Stars were strewn haphazardly across the heavens, glinting prettily, and the moon cast frail light down upon Middle-Earth. Warm, spring winds blew gently through the branches of the trees above. It was a lovely night, but Nyatha could not bring herself to take any joy in her surroundings.

She heaved a sigh and glanced to her traveling companion, the Elf Legolas. He was standing, back against the tree, looking upwards to the stars, his light golden hair tumbling down around his shoulders. Were it not for his fair skin and long, golden locks he would have blended into the background, clad as he was in dark greens and browns. Three days out after the raid, and she had met him—fate, it seemed, was playing with her. 

Elves! Nyatha had heard so many stories of them, had often crept into her father's hall with Niassa and Niarwyn, and sometimes Rokan as well, to listen to the men talk of them. No one in her father's town had ever talked to one, or even _seen_ one. 

Niassa…Niarwyn…Rokan… The names of her closest siblings brought her mind to her childhood.

Nyatha was a middle child, the ninth of fourteen children. Being, not only one of the younger middle children, but a female at that, she had been considered useless, but nevertheless grew up happy and contented. For all her family was large, they were a happy one, and for years they had lived peacefully. It had been a rather boring existence—Nyatha's father, Lord Kyrian, was the lord of a large town, a city really, and probably would have held more lands had not the realms of Men been in such disorder—thus she had lived in relative comfort.

As she had grown older, she had begged her brothers to teach her what they learned. They agreed, and took delight in teaching her, since she was their favourite sister, whose interests were so close to their own. First there was archery, which, while she had performed to her brothers' satisfaction, she was only moderately good at (to her dissatisfaction). Then swordplay, which she had loved, and still did, and what she excelled at. And then she was taught to track, to throw a knife, to skin prey. She had worked hard, though in secret—Kyrian had wished for her to be grown up properly, for a maid, like her two elder sisters, with the barest teachings of self-defense.

_Perhaps_, reflected Nyatha with a wistful smile, _it was his own fault, putting this love of the outdoors in me…_ For Nyatha had often, when she was young, wandered to the forest that bordered the village, scaring the animals, and chasing butterflies, climbing trees and getting into scrapes. She hadn't been happy when her father had forbid her to go, saying a scruffy lady was not a good potential bride. 

Bride indeed, scoffed Nyatha. _Niassa and the rest, yes…but never_ me.

She had lived like this; learning weaponswork from her brothers in secret, learning sewing, embroidery and other 'womanly' tasks from her mother, Niassa, and Kivana. Also included with her studies were some basic mathematics and writing skills. She didn't much like them. Then there were music lessons, in lute playing. Nyatha had loved them, finding in this something she could do well that had nothing to do with the trade of war and killing. She had always loved music, and while she could not sing very well, her voice being far too harsh for that use, she could play the lute quite well. In all her studies she had studied hard, earning all from hard work, and she was proud of herself. 

Again Nyatha jabbed the stick into the embers, sending sparks flying. She watched as they flew upward, then winked out. She sighed, and leaned backwards. It had been four days since they had met, woman and Elf, and it seemed the orcs got farther and farther no matter how fast or hard they rode. She was falling asleep, lulled to relaxation by the hypnotizing glow of the embers, when a rustling sound caught her ears. She turned to Legolas, to see the Elf tense and wary, looking in the direction the sound had come from.

"Fire," he hissed, nodding his head briefly at the dying cookfire. Understanding, Nyatha kicked dirt over the softly glowing embers, snuffing them out. She grabbed the packs, and threw them under a bush, melting into the shadows. 

She saw Legolas leap easily out of view into the branches of a tall tree.

She followed the noise, leaving Legolas to guard the packs from scavengers and the horses from whatever danger. She crept with a stealth she had worked so hard to gain, creeping through the forest, using trees as shelters.

Soon she found the source. The noise the group of four made was surprising to her; she figured that these creatures would be stealthy. They were in a meadow, and around this meadow Nyatha skulked and spied.

But the orcs were nothing like that. One complained in voice that seemed far too high for such a dark, ugly creature to have, "Ifnakh, we've been traveling for _ages_, and we are useless. We cannot find the main band since we split off as decoys, and it is obvious the," he said something that Nyatha assumed was unflattering in Black Speech, "trackers are not following us. _And_ I'm hungry."

Harshly, the largest of the orcs, Ifnakh apparently, growled something at the other orc, interrupting a further protest, the phrase a mix of Black Speech and Common. It ran something along the lines of, 'We never should have brought an infant along,' which amused Nyatha, as did the young orc's angered response, which was a mix of very colourful words in, once again, Common and Black Speech.

Grimly, Nyatha pulled something from the pouch at her belt. It was neither knife nor sword, but a weapon that Nyatha felt would be useful at this moment. It was a weapon Nyatha had learned at an early age, her skill with it the reason for her close bond with her brothers. 

Nyatha wished Legolas would see this—it would be amusing. From her pouch she removed a smooth stone and fitted it into the sling. She twirled it in the air soundlessly, took aim, and let loose.

Immediately, she slipped around the orcs to their rear, as fast as possible, making as little noise as possible. The stone hit the young orc on the side of his forehead, not dead in the center as she'd hoped. It hit with a sickening wet thud, and the orc dropped to the ground, senseless. The others whirled about, trying to see what had happened.

It was a few seconds later when an orc went down, and arrow in his back. Legolas leapt down from a tree, to Nyatha's astonishment—she figured he had walked from tree to tree, across branches, something she hadn't deemed possible. But then, she hadn't imagined the beauty of the Elf, nor his lovely voice. 

She drew her sword, and ran out of the bushes, heading for Ifnakh, while Legolas shot down the other orcs. With a half-smile he watched her battle the orc-leader.

She lunged at the orc, and he quickly parried with his crude sword, in a movement fast movement, which had a strange grace to it. He swung at her, and she skipped out of the way, and lunged, was parried, was lunged at, parried, riposte, parry… the blows continued, the two battling 'round the small clearing, the makeshift battlefield. The skill of the orc leader surprised Nyatha.

Finally he knocked the sword from her hand, in a disarm made more up of brute strength than skill. She avoided his lunge, and wove around his blade, dodging the swipes, cursing, and wishing she could maneuver herself closer to where her blade had fallen. Legolas had vanished.

Sweat soaked her now, and she was grateful for the headband, which kept it from sliding into her eyes. Nervously she avoided the hacking, eerily skillful thrusts and attacks of the orc leader, docking, dodging, weaving, dancing the dance of survival. She had left her sling in the bushes, her knife with the packs. She was weaponless, and she knew with certainty that she was going to die. 

The camping trip-gone-wrong had been bad; when her brother Orandin had gone she had sunk to despair for a few minutes, then, with her trademark stubbornness, decided to go rescue him, asking for no help at all, but taking the weapons she could scavenge from the wreck of the camp. Legolas, the enigmatic Elven warrior, had seemed like a gift, but now he was gone, and the reality of danger and death now sunk into Nyatha. Die. She would never be able to rescue her brother, and would lose her honour—

"NEVER!" she yelled, and made a furious run and dive for her sword. It was just then she felt an exploding pain in her shoulder, and the last thing she was Legolas' golden hair shining in the moonlight, and a group of fresh orcs…


	4. Talking

Just a little story that I thought of—something that, for once, would not be a Legomance (Legolas Romance). I read somewhere on a review on another website that Legolas was a _warrior_, not a romantic womanizer, so this is my way of agreeing with them. It won't evolve into romance, I promise that.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings or J. R. R. Tolkien (which is too bad), nor do I own Legolas, Thranduil, Mirkwood, Dol Guldur, or any other familiar name. I do, however, own Anathen, Firaniel, and Nyatha. Oh, and Avormith and Kivan, and other unfamiliar names.

If you like it, review it. If you don't, review it anyway. If my Elvish is wrong, if my grammar is not good, or if there are any spelling mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me!

~*~*~*~*~

Nyatha shook off the dark with effort, straining to keep consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open to see an orc bending over her, a knife in its hand. Her sword lay _under_ her, the hilt poking into her back, and, since it was unaccessible, she did the first thing she could think of. She kneed the orc between the legs, and when he fell back, gasping in the sudden pain, she rolled away, grabbed her sword, and ran him through.

She leapt up, and spun. She yanked the arrow out of her shoulder, oblivious to the pain as she assessed the situation. Legolas was fighting orcs with two glittering knives, keeping them from her. He saw she was awake, and left her side, ducking, weaving, slashing, and fighting in a graceful blur of movement. The minute he went, she saw Ifnakh—amazingly not yet dead, although he was peppered with arrows and knife slashes—run for her, crude iron sword in hand.

Nyatha pointed her sword at his eyes, and murmured, "Come…"

The orc lunged, and she parried, and lunged in return. Immediately she was swept into a deadly dance of parries, blows, thrusts, and lunges. A trance came over her, and everything was shaded out of her vision save for the orc and the blades. A reddish haze came over her vision, and time seemed to slow as she parried, lunged, dodged, ducked and jumped.

She analyzed his technique, or lack thereof. Ifnakh had some inaccuracy, making for some unexpected moves. There was no pattern to his movements, and he had enough skill to leave very few openings. He wasn't clumsy as some orcs, but he wasn'tgraceful, at least, not like Legolas was. His 'grace', for the lack of a better term, was crude and seemed to be because of whatever weaponry training he'd received.

Then—there it was! The opening she'd been waiting for! She ducked under his blade, and rushed for him, sword out. She rammed him through, under his crude leather breastplate, and felt the tip of her sword go into a tree that had been behind Ifnakh, so hard had she struck him. She fell back, releasing the hilt of her sword, as the orc leader died.

"Nice work," commented Legolas, wiping his blades on the grass. "Whoever taught you, taught you well."

Nyatha blushed, although Legolas did not see, as she was wreathed in shadow. She had always felt somewhat self-conscious of her abilities, since very few females of either race, elves or men, seemed to be warriors. With a wrench, she dragged her bloodstained sword out of the tree and out of the orc, and, like Legolas, wiped it on the grass. 

After she had slid the sword back into it's sheath, she straightened and looked around. The sky was lighter, heralding the approach of dawn. From what she could see of the dark clearing, it was littered in dead orcs and the grass was a wash of crimson. Her own battlelust faded as she took the sight in, and the quiet of the forest. 

Suddenly a sharp pain mde her glance at her left shoulder, where the arrow had pierced it. She stared in weary fascination as blood dripped down her arm, sticky and mixed with her own sweat. 

"Don't touch it," warned Legolas as she subconsciously moved a hand towards the wound. She hadn't noticed him come near, but there he was. He tore a strip off the bottom of his dark green tunic and wrapped it around her shoulder gently, while she blinked the tiredness of the aftermath of a battle from her drowsy eyes. 

"Wh-what happened?" she asked, pulling away from him and attempting to stand. She wobbled, and grabbed a nearby tree to steady herself. 

Legolas looked at her quizzicly, and she shook herself and continued, "I mean, from where did the fresh orcs come?"

"I believe they were another of the group that split up." He gave a sigh, then added, "And two escaped. I tried to stop them, but it was either fight or lose my life at that moment."

"How long was I down for?"

Legolas shrugged, "Not long. You surprise me, maethor sell—I did not expect that you would get up."

Nyatha's mouth twisted into a mockery of a grin as she stifled a yawn, but she said nothing. She hd expected that the Elf would underestimate her. Well, now he knew better.

Legolas looked her over, and frowned. "I believe we should rest for today. You do not seem well. For all you put on an impressive performance this night, the race of Men weaken quicker than the Elves."

Nyatha protested, "This wound is nought but a scratch! I will be fine." She stood straighter, took the hand off the tree. She managed three steps before her knees attempted to give in on her. To her embaressment, Legolas caught her and picked her up. 

"Indeed," he said, humour in his voice.

He turned his direction to their former camp, where, with luck, their horses and packs would be safe. 

***

"Oh, but you are also wounded," said Nyatha as Legolas bathed her wounded shoulder with heated water and material from a spare cloak he had brought, and slashed with his razor-sharp daggers. Legolas looked at his right arm, where a bloody line proclaimed Nyatha's statement true. 

Legolas shrugged. "It is not life-threatening," he told her, removing the bloodstained, soggy cloth and squeezing it over the grass, where reddened drops of boiled streamwater fell. 

"Neither is this arrow-wound," commented Nyatha, wincing as he re-bound her shoulder tightly. 

The two were by the campfire. Nyatha was sitting cross-legged on her cloak, wearing a sleeveless night-tunic she had found buried deep in a saddle-bag, breeches and boots. Legolas was kneeling in front of her, a pot of fire-heated water from a stream a few paces from their camp beside him by the fire, cut-up strips of his former cloak lying on the other side of him, far from the fire. Avormith was grazing two meters away, and Kivan was beside her, hobbled and munching contentedly away at the grass.

"You're also tired after fighting that orc," pointed out Legolas.

"You fought almost a dozen of those unpleasant creatures, and you're worried about me fighting _one_?" muttered Nyatha bitterly, pulling a bit of salted rabbit meat out of a pouch, and biting into it.

"I'm an Elf," said Legolas dismissively, "You were not only riding and tracking all day, you fought the leader, who was the most well-trained of the lot, and you took a deep arrow-wound. You've been up since dawn this morning, and I've heard that the race of Men need to sleep every night to regain their true strength."

"Elves don't sleep every night?" asked Nyatha.

"We don't sleep the way mortals sleep," said Legolas easily, "And we require less rest."

Nyatha looked a bit wistful at that, "It must be wonderful to be immortal," she sighed, her voice sleepy.

Legolas shrugged. "There are times of joy, and times of sorrow as with Men, also."

If he said anything else, Nyatha didn't hear, as she had fallen asleep, her body falling onto the cloak. 

Legolas smiled at the young woman, and gently covered her with his cloak. He rose and glanced at the rising sun.


	5. Riding

Just a little story that I thought of—something that, for once, would not be a Legomance (Legolas Romance). I read somewhere on a review on another website that Legolas was a _warrior_, not a romantic womanizer, so this is my way of agreeing with them. It _may_ evolve into some romance, but it's not going to, if it ever will, until these two know each other very well.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings or J. R. R. Tolkien (which is too bad), nor do I own Legolas, Thranduil, Mirkwood, Dol Guldur, or any other familiar name. I do, however, own Anathen, Firaniel, and Nyatha. Oh, and Avormith and Kivan, and other unfamiliar names.

If you like it, review it. If you don't, review it anyway. If my Elvish is wrong, if my grammar is not good, or if there are any spelling mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me!

And, to all my wonderful reviewers:

Trina T: Here it is, my next chapter! Hope you like this one, too.

Morgan le Fay: Yes, I keep messing up the spelling of 'leapt'. I'll fix it…when I'm not being lazy or procrastinating.

Hael Deydre: Yes, I know about that mistake… I'll fix it…sometime.

~*~*~*~*~

Legolas hummed a tune to himself as he tied a strip of cloth about his wounded arm, and took a sip from his waterskin. It was still night—or rather, early morning—but the moon and stars illuminated the surrounding forest adequately, so Legolas decided to hunt. The food supply was growing smaller, as well. He hadn't seen any sign of more orcs since the skirmish, so he left Nyatha sleeping by the fire.

He sighed in pleasure as he stepped through the forest, his feet making no sound on the soft grasses. It was quiet, with only the occasional hooting of an owl, or the scurry of a small mammal through the bushes breaking the silence. The moonlight and strlight filtering through the treetops gave the forest an ethereal appearance, casting a silvery glow on the leaves and grasses.

Stealthily and quietly, the Elf crept through the forest, his bow and an arrow in his hands. His blue eyes glittered—he loved the forest, and it was on nights like these he loved it the most. The lovely Greenwood, now known as Mirkwood, was his home, and there was no place on Middle-Earth he felt was lovelier. 

His eyes picked up a movement, and he aimed and shot at the squirrel in a fluid movement. As usual, the arrow hit true; Legolas was an archer with almost legendary talent among the Elves of Mirkwood.

He walked up to the squirrel and brought it back to the camp.

***

Nyatha groaned and stretched as the sunlight hit her eyes. She looked up and judged the time—it was a little past dawn. She reached a hand to touch her shoulder, than pulled back, thinking perhaps it was not a good idea to touch the arrow-wound.

Legolas was eating rabbit stew from a crude-looking bowl, and he made a head gesture that told her she should have some too. "Good morning," she told him, and ladled herself some of the stew. It was good, spiced with herbs she didn't recognise. 

When the stew had been finished, the two silently packed away what they needed too, and Nyatha scuffed out the dying campfire with her boots. Then she climbed into Kivan's saddle, instinctively patting the gelding's neck as if to say 'good morning'. Kivan switched his tail and at a light kick from her heels trotted off into the woods at her direction.

Elves generally rode with neither saddle nor bridle, but Legolas had known the orcs had got a headstart, so he'd packed a type of saddle-bag that elves used when they went on longer trips, or what the elven armies used sometimes. Avormith, the vain horse, had been a bit insulted that she'd had to carry some of Legolas' things, but knew what it was, and bore the burden with a graceful ease. 

Legolas easily mounted the horse, and whispered to her in elvish. Avormith flicked an ear, and trotted smoothly after Kivan. 

The orcs's trail was surprisingly clear and easy to follow, so the two hunters picked up their speed, the two horses moving to a slow canter. Finally Nyatha, who happened to be in the lead, stopped, and Avormith stopped behind Nyatha's gelding. The orc trail now branched off into two directions. One went to the east, the other to the south. 

Nyatha and Legolas dismounted, and studdied the ground carefully, but the only foorprints to be seen were orcs, and there was no sign of which way the orcs had taken their hostages.

Legolas muttered something in elvish, then said, "If only Estel were here; he far surpasses me in tracking skills."

"Estel?" questioned Nyatha, who was squinting at the ground, examing the bushes and looking for any sign, any trace of where her brother had been taken.

"He is a friend, a man who dwells in the elvish city of Rivendell," Legolas told her, "The adopted son of the ruler there. His name means 'hope'."

"Hmm…" was Nyatha's distracted reply. Finally she shrugged and turned disappointed eyes on the elf. "No sign. We must choose a way to go."

"I say the south, since that's the way the orcs were going all along," Legolas said.

Nyatha shook her head. "But east lies… Mordor. Would not the orcs go there? To that black, horrible land?"

The two argued for a moment or so, when Nyatha finally stamped her foot and shook her head. "This is silly; we should be tracking those devils, not arguing over which path to go! Let us go to the south, as you say, and hope that that is where your beloved and my brother have been taken."

Legolas agreed, and did not correct her over her mistaken assumption that Benawen was his beloved. 

They rode along the south trail slowly, keeping an eye on the trail. No sign did they see, however, of Benawen or Nyatha's brother. After a while, however, they did ride straight into an ambush of about a score of orcs, armed to the teeth. 


End file.
